Archive
05/24/09 - (2)
The Animal Lover
If you had a collection of pets — a menagerie, let's say — In your very own backyard's "no trespassing" fortress, Outfitted with the latest in invisible atomic fences,
And you could go out, all hours of the night and day, To check up on them, as to their keeping and breeding, Clean and feed and schmooze with them, confide in them,
To your heart's content and then some, and then some more, As though they were your closest, dearest, bestest of friends, For life and beyond, guaranteed, amen and Godspeed,
And you could con and conjure them, with meaty treats, Into doing breath-stopping tricks and stunts you'd taught them, Through years of conditioning's rigorous disciplines,
Such as standing on their three eight-toed feet, Balancing the gross bulk of their even grosser tonnage On the tips of their hermaphroditic tails and swollen buttocks,
Mowing the lawn, by rolling over, forty-nine thousand times, Getting high on your wife's blooming nightshades and belladonnas, Tongue-bathing you, when you call them by name
(McBeth, your spotted globular; McGraw, your lesser klunt; McGrew, your heat-venting clorthometicus; McSchlub, your tricerotoptical snub; McBane, your coloerectus;
McEpiglottis, your five-star-splotched chronicobulus; McAloysius McVicious-McPernicious, Your exceedingly tiny, though highly toxic, tropical spiny spandinkus),
You'd seize, in a Katmandu or -don't secular nanosecond, Every chance that might fly your imagination's way, To indulge your groaning appetites for your critterly companions,
Till their calves, babies, pups, larvae came home to roost and roast. Only, such can never be the case, never will, Since each of your pets would possess a frothing antipathy,
A flagrant, raging, acrimoniousy bloated hatred, for you, McGingus McGrodden McBluster McFluster McBrooder Schwartz. They'd roar, claw, and bite if you attempted to mount them
(Which you'd surely do, being the passionate animal lover you are), Not with hand-tooled-Corinthian-leather silver-inlaid saddles But with your foot-long-hot-dog, mustard-slathered schwanz.
05/24/09 - (2)
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